Trouble and Strife
by Just Inevitable
Summary: Where Carson and Mrs. Hughes are now husband and wife.
1. Part One

**Author's Notes:** It's been an age, hasn't it?  
>Many many (many!) thanks to jeslieness from tumblr, who is basically the best beta reader in the entire world, and has more patience than a saint.<br>Oh and in case you're wondering about the title - 'trouble and strife' is cockney for 'wife,' which I thought it was rather appropriate here.

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><p>She is sat at the vanity when he comes in, elegantly there, demure, with her dressing gown draped around her, as pale lamplight falls on pretty features. Carson is taken aback, stunned for a long moment, watches as skilled fingers twine and come apart, form the thick braid over her shoulder. Stands silently there, against the doorframe, is quietly conquered by the lovely spectral in the mirror, by the shadows and highlights of her. By the striking image of her there, just this way, in their home and ready for bed.<p>

"There you are, Mr Carson," she says then, a quick, sudden thing. Startled out of his reverie, he jerks his head upward. She is smiling at his reflection, turning around to greet him. "I was worried you'd gotten cold feet."

"Ah, no." He pinches the drawstring of his robe, fumbles. "No, a little late for that, I should think."

Carson clears his throat. Means for it to be offhand, droll perhaps, but the words fall short somehow, mangle in the hollow tenor of his voice. _(And to think, he'd believed this morning would be the most trying part, that it would all come easily after the securing of vows, the tentative brushing of lips against lips)._ He is bristling now, restive, as she rises from her seat, approaches him with open palms and reaches for his things. With some consternation, he lets her take them, watches as capable hands fold his suit neatly, place his tie on top of her scarf, in a tidy little bundle, as she sets his cufflinks down, there, beside her hairpins. All balance and poise, all crisp, calm movements, Carson considers her, wonders not for the first time how it is she acclimatises so smoothly, how she can possibly take it all in her stride. _(_He's_ been coming apart at the seams since this morning, since they'd stood outside the registrar office in Ripon, and he saw her there, amongst the falling leaves, there, amongst the chestnuts and golds and harvested things)._

She moves her gentle bustling to the bed then, starts turning it down, peeling back the covers, the duvet. The very picture of domesticity, she looks every bit the reverent wife, with those small bare feet pushing into plush carpet, a coy smile gracing her lips. Carson feels a knot of panic rise in his chest. He is loath to admit it, but he is uncertain _(shy, even)_ of her, of this, their first night together as man and wife. There is no reason for it – this is a marriage of convenience, after all, of friendship and mutual respect, for him _and_ her, he is sure _(almost, he is almost sure)._ But she is different now; there is something altered in her, sweeping through her steps, streaked through the carefully waved hair, dangerous even, in the curve of full hips. And he doesn't know, is uncertain, but thinks that maybe her dressing gown is new – he's seen her old one, white and worn cotton, and this is anything but – this is ivory and lace, and it falls about her knees, gathers around her breasts. _(Fleetingly, he wonders if she has bought it for tonight)._

His face suffuses with heat. "How – how do you like the house?"

"Oh, I like it very much. Very much indeed." She walks around the bed, begins arranging the pillows, rearranging them to her satisfaction, doesn't look up from her task. "Well, it needs a bit of work done yet, but nothing we can't manage between us."

Carson twists the drawstring, winds the cotton painfully around thick fingers. Nods once, twice, as he bandies about, goes to stand behind the armchair _(his bedroom chair, a piece of their old home)_ leans against it as he searches for the words, for some common ground. It shouldn't be this hard, really, not when they've done this a thousand times, when they've run a house together seamlessly, flawlessly for years now, decades. But then, they've never been alone together, not like this, not even after the ceremony. Darkness had fallen by the time they left the Abbey after all, once the merrymaking and champagne was done with, after good wishes and shaken hands, after Lady Mary had kissed his cheek and Anna had promised to bring young Billy Bates round for tea. _(__And he _had _ been hiding after all, once they'd arrived at their little cottage, gave her use of the bathroom first before locking himself in there to change, to sit at the edge of the porcelain tub and collect his scattered thoughts)._

He clears his throat. "About that – I thought I would look in the village tomorrow, to place an advertisement in the post office."

She does glance at him then, with a pause, her eyebrows knitted together. "Whatever for?"

"For a maid, to help you around the house."

"Oh, that won't be necessary, Mr Carson." It is an immediate dismissal, a light shaking of her head. "And anyway, I don't think we need to talk about it just this minute. It's late."

She turns now, toward him, looks up at his face quietly, _(expectantly, even)_ teeth biting down on her lower lip, hands folded in front of her. Carson swallows heavily. He isn't sure what she means by that, what she's trying to insinuate with that shy smile, _(he's seen it before, he's sure, at the seaside perhaps, some years ago) _illusive and mysterious as she already is. Tells himself he's imagining it, of course he is. There has never been anything improper between them, and rightfully so, and there's certainly no need to start now. _(But oh, she's looking at him so intensely, staring up at him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and he doesn't know what to do, isn't sure where to look)._

"Yes, of course," he says, finally, after what seems to be an age. "Forgive me. You must be tired."

"That isn't quite what I said." Her face turns serious, earnest, and her brogue is heavy, thicker than he's heard in years. "Only I don't see why we must discuss it _now_."

She gives a final brush to the covers, a pat, and then without preamble, reaches for her dressing gown, makes the slightest of tugging motions at the knot sitting on her waist. Carson gapes at her, widens his eyes. Tries desperately not to look, to not notice; veers his gaze carefully to her face, only to be drawn down again to those fidgeting digits, the sliver of glossy fabric becoming unveiled. She's simply undressing for bed, he thinks, there's nothing forward about it, he tells himself, she is not a presumptuous woman, _(not really, not too much)._ It would be wrong of course, to be intimate at this stage in their lives, _(to take those full lips between his, or worship her with his big hands, to touch her until she is moaning beneath him, crying out for more), _would beso terribly misplaced, and she knows that, surely she does.

Carson stumbles, stutters over his words. "Well, I just thought that we should be comfortable here, and considering your lack of experience in –"

"Lack of experience?" Another soft tug, the slightest raising of her brow. "I am perfectly capable of running a household, as ye very well know."

One last pull, and he watches, stricken, as the gown comes loose, reveals to him a satin nightdress _(and it's new, brand new, he's sure of it now). _All pearl and tulle and gentle tucks, all curve and dip and unhindered motion, she removes it slowly, slides it down her shoulders with purpose, with meaning _(and he can't go on like this, can no longer ignore the question that is posed in her eyes, the challenge in the set of her chin, can't pretend that he doesn't know exactly what it is she is asking for, everything she is offering). _His heart is hammering in his ears when he swallows deeply then, when he squares his shoulders, tightens his jaw. "That being as it may, I must insist –"

"_Really,_ there's no need, Mr Carson." She shakes her head at him, doffs the gown completely.

He chokes. "There is _every_ need, Mrs Hughes!"

And suddenly, he is shouting. Suddenly, without meaning to, he is frowning at her, balling his fists at his sides, has turned this into an argument, a dispute about household affairs, where he is butler and she, the housekeeper. But she is not that, she isn't _Mrs Hughes_, not anymore, she is his wife, and whether he wants it to or not, things have changed between them. She is not fighting back, after all, doesn't rise to the challenge as she might have before _(even a month ago, a week)._ Instead, her eyes are wide, brimming with hurt _(hurt that he put there)_ with tears, and she is backing away from him and crossing her arms, biting down hard on that lower lip. Carson looks at her face in shock, in horror, his chest aching now, his heart is raw and red and burning with regret, feverish with shame.

His eyes press together tightly. "Mrs Carson," he corrects.


	2. Part Two

And her voice is quiet when she speaks again, thin and torn around the edges, her face is scarlet from embarrassment. "You're right," she whispers. "It has been a long day. Perhaps we should just go to bed."

He watches as she slides under the blankets, pulls them up to her neck, opens his mouth only to close it, to open again, helplessly, uselessly. _(And what is there to say, really? What can he tell her? That he is mad for her, that his body is hard and wanting now that he's seen the secret, inner side of her elbows, the freckles of her wrists? Now that he has been privy to those strong bare calves, to the high arches of alabaster feet?)_ He doesn't know how to make things right between them, how to proceed; his pride is inarticulate, clumsy in the face of regret. _(In the Abbey, he might have left the room, or she might, and they could come back together, calmer and more forgiving, with tea and biscuits and silent apologies. In the Abbey he never hurt her as badly as this)._ All he knows is they cannot end the night, and begin their marriage this way, only knows that her resignation twists around his heart, that hurting her strangles the very breath from his lungs and it simply will not do.

"Please, I –"

She stiffens, straightens her back. "Put out the light, Mr Carson."

"No, please." With quiet determination, he moves toward her and settles tentatively on top of the bedclothes. "I don't doubt you can manage, and I never meant to –– You see, I'm not sure that –"

Carson falters, casts about for the right thing to say. There are no words though, and that's the trouble, there is nothing for it, this delicate thing that they share, no crisp white certificate that can properly define them, demarcate the lives they have led together and haven't really lived at all. _(Not when their vows were made silently and separately a lifetime ago, when their bands were forged of something other than gold, some compounded alloy made of confidences and camaraderie and raising other people's children). _There are so many things he wants to tell her, _(and even more that he can't)_ which she deserves to know. That her friendship is invaluable for a start, _(or that she is beautiful to him)_ that she has been his partner in life, _(the beating heart beneath his livery)_ and it has been enough, more than enough. _(And to take more from her, to make love to her _now_, after everything, would be to renounce it, would render it _not _enough, inadequate, and can't she see that?) _

"I want to do right by you, and –"

"Just _leave_ it. Leave it alone." Her head shakes in small, urgent movements. "I've told you to put out the light."

The commanding tone, words spoken through terse lips, cause him to flinch. Her voice is flat and colourless and she is prepared to sleep, now, with things still unresolved between them. Carson doesn't blame her, not at all, _(wonders if this is where her endless patience wanes, if this is the moment she finally runs out of room in her heart to forgive him)_ but he is hesitant. Gives a glance to the lamp on his nightstand, but does not reach for it_,_ can't bring himself to sleep unless he has given her something at least, until they are on the same side again. _(They will never be, he fears, they will sleep side by side with this distance between them forever). _After a moment of pause however, of his not yielding, she turns, whips around to face him. And before he knows what's happening, she has moved to lean over his body, is decidedly reaching for the lamp string herself.

"What are you doing?" he splutters. It is a moment of scuffle, of confusion, because this isn't over yet, they cannot end it here,_ (and because he can't think when she is near like this, cannot breathe when her braid is tickling his neck and he can smell roses on her skin)._ "Mrs Hughes, wait. Please, I'm trying to apologise."

She is insistent though, almost forceful against his sounds of protest and the hand that moves impulsively to hold her away, to push them lightly apart. "No. You are _trying_ to tell me that this isn't a real marriage for you. Not truly."

Back and forth, forth and back again, he is careful to be gentle and she is careful not to be, stretching further over him, further still, and he can feel his hackles rise. "How _could_ it be?"

His head is ringing with alarm bells, with the throbbing of his pulse, _(she is too near to him, she will feel his need, he is crumbling to pieces beneath her),_ they are breathless and warm and unsteadily hinged, and she wins their little battle only to trip, to stumble. And as the room is propelled into darkness, Carson falls against the headboard with her arms on either side of his body, with the delicious weight of her breasts pressing into him. His eyes slam shut. It is a long moment before he manages to open them again, to look up at her face only inches away from his now. He opens his mouth to apologise, but then her own hand is covering his, silencing him, holding him there against her. Her face is framed in the moonlight and they are still with realisation, he has taken her with him, his palm is clutching at her smooth, bare thigh, and she is still, with his manhood pushing up against her, her eyes are clear and shining, bright with understanding, with tenderness.

"How could it be?" he whispers.

"Just as easily, if you'd let it."

Carson swallows heavily. And now _(too much, this is too much)_ she is doing more than just holding him in place, she is sliding his hand against her, smoothing it up and down the delicious length, and his body is thrumming, aware of her every inch against him. He shouldn't be touching her, this is wrong, he shouldn't be moving his hand of his own accord now, should not be kneading the heft of her thigh in his palm. This is everything they denied themselves, everything they claimed they didn't want, but _(oh gods, oh)_ she is taut against him, wound up tightly, her breath is coming out harshly now and just one more minute, he thinks. One more minute and he will release her, stop this madness, will take his pillow and sleep in the drawing room every night for the rest of their lives, but not just this moment.

Perhaps they can pretend, he thinks wildly, desperate now to preserve his conscience. Perhaps none of this is truly happening if they are silent, if they do not make a sound, immerse themselves in this spell of quietude. Perhaps they could do this for another minute _(or two, or three)_ if they cannot see, encompassed as they are in the darkness of the room. Maybe, just maybe, if he keeps his eyes closed, his hand isn't really moving up, under her nightgown, tracing over the swell of her bottom, her hip and – _(oh god, no, gods)_ she is shifting now, pushing the weight of her breast into his palm, and _(no, this is too much, they have gone too far)_ he cannot resist her, cannot find the strength to stop.

Her back arches into him as he massages, squeezes, his grip firming as he loses himself in the heat of her, his fingers bolder now, daring to explore those soft curves, to stroke against sensitive nipples until they are tensed under his ministrations. And then she is gasping, stifling deep moans in his pillow, trying hard like him to stay quiet, but he has heard it, oh yes, felt the trembling through her chest, felt his body respond to the exquisite sound of her, and it is real now, absolute, there is no denying it any more. The silence has been broken, the spell that was cast shattered around them, and he stiffens under her, face burning, as she lifts her head.

"Mrs –"

She cuts him off with soft fingers to his lips, her eyes searching his out in the dark. "Kiss me."

Her voice is low and rasping, diffident in a way Carson has never heard before, and it steals the air from his lungs. This woman, this strong, spirited woman, who has always held her own, who has never asked for more than he could give, she is laying bare her heart to him, almost shaking with a nervousness that pulls at him, swells in his chest. All her usual strength is gone, all the self-assurance dissipated, and she is not insisting now, not demanding anything, but asking him, pleading with a trembling voice and watering eyes that he not reject her, and he cannot withstand it anymore, cannot _not_ do this any longer.

"Please kiss me."

There are no two ways about it then, there is nothing for him but to succumb, to fall at her feet and give into her bidding. A kiss then, at this late hour of their lives, and the raising of trembling hands, _(hands that only know silver and steel, those sharp edges of paper and broken wine bottles)_ to her sweet face. Carson exhales slowly, shudders as she leans into his touch, burrows her cheek into the curve of his palm. She is everything familiar to him, everything that is home, he knows every line, every freckle, but to hold her in this way, to feel her warm cheeks, her jawline against the pads of his fingers, is overwhelmingly intimate. Softly then, slowly they move together and apart, a nervous pressing of aged lips, lips dry with inexperience, chapped from years of restraint, have finally found each other _(and it is lovely, he thinks, she is so lovely)._ And suddenly he is not ready, not nearly prepared to give her up, her lips are moist and her eyes are heavy, lidded with desire, and his mouth chases hers.

"Oh God," he whispers.

In one fluid movement, he turns them over so that she is underneath, and leans down, captures her, kisses her with everything he has, all the things he never said. Should have known _(did know, really, he did)_ that he could never be sated after the first touch, the first taste of her, had always suspected that she would be his undoing. So he kisses her, lavishly, reverently, means to allay each and every one of her fears with the gentle nips and the slide of his tongue, show her that she is not, has never been alone in this. _(And oh, oh, she is perfection, her lips on his is everything, she is everything he ever wanted)._ She tastes of champagne, of wedding cake, and she is eager, pulling at him so that he is closer, closer still, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pushing her fingers into his hair.

"Oh, _Mr Carson_."


End file.
